


Evil Angel

by Wings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Deathfic, Demon Dean Winchester, M/M, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-14
Updated: 2012-04-14
Packaged: 2017-11-03 15:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/382908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wings/pseuds/Wings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a post-apocalyptic world where the angels won but only after Lucifer had his say in things, Sam is dead, Dean was sent to Hell for defying God's and the angels' plan for him, and Castiel was imprisoned in Heaven for decades for conspiring with the brothers. Only now is he free to seek out his charge though he may not find what he's hoping for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Evil Angel

**Author's Note:**

> Song lyrics and fic title from Breaking Benjamin's 'Evil Angel'.

_Put me to sleep, Evil Angel_

_Open your wings, Evil Angel_

_  
_

_I'm a believer_

_Nothing could be worse_

_All these imaginary friends_

_Hiding betrayal, driving the nail_

_Hoping to find a saviour_

_No, don't leave me to die here_

_Help me survive here, alone_

_Don't surrender_

_Surrender_

_  
_

_Put me to sleep, Evil Angel_

_Open your wings, Evil Angel_

_Fly over me, Evil Angel_

_Why can't I breathe, Evil Angel?_

_~~~_

The heat of bodies pressed up against his naked self was a comfort. It meant that he could fight back; if they shoved, he could shove back, smiling to the melody of bones snapping under his whim. It meant there was a blade in his hand and fresh blood streaming down to warm his toes. It meant he could pluck and play their screams to grace his ears just as he pleased. And he did just that, slicing neatly through sweat-streaked flesh to stroke delicate sinews, running a ragged nail down the too-taunt cord before raising his blade to snap it with only a smirk. Muscles fell loose but continued twitching, spasming in time with the symphony of screams that were like nails on a blackboard and every other pleasantry Hell had ever supplied. And Dean laughed.

Because really, all it meant was that now it was his turn.

***

The body on the bed didn't move. It hadn't moved since he'd placed it there as gently as he could while his fingers and arms burned from the mere contact as though flames where kindled in the man's very bones. And who knew, after this long they very well could be.

He sat slumped in the corner of the room, not bothering with a chair, while his wings smouldered ashy shadows into the rotted wood panelling behind him. Some tiny embers still clung to the feathers; fingerprints and memoirs from the Inferno left to carefully caress away his battered grace. It would take a little while and a lot of pain but he felt he'd live. He hadn't asked for anything more.

He hardly blinked as the dusty sun set, taking its light to fade behind the molted curtains, and still his charge didn't move. The corners of his mouth quirked then as he noticed his unconscious wording. How long had it been since Dean had truly been just his charge? It was... too long. Back when the Apocalypse was only a possibility and the world was lit by a sun that still shone with enough strength to matter.

That paradise seemed so distant now; a blink of time so far gone he could have lived a mortal life twice between then and now. Instead though, he had watched from above, spending years captive in Heaven, peering down through smog-filled clouds to a world grown dry and crumbled with misuse, just as his brother had desired he thought. People still lived – bred, hunted and, more often than not, killed – but it was barren compared to what they had once known. He had watched and all along resisted turning his gaze lower, resisted scouring the flames for a single soul while he waited for his sentence to end. Waited until he was free to return.

He didn't realize he had fallen asleep until the cool edge of a blade was pressed against his throat and the ragged breath of his charge swept across his face. Without a thought he was on his feet, wings screaming their pain through his shoulders as he spread them wide. Broken feathers brushed dust from the walls and his blue eyes blazed down at the man who was still fresh enough from sleep and eternal damnation to have been thrown onto his back with the force of an angel's weakened grace. His eyes were wide, the hazel-green achingly familiar, but now dark with uncertainty and hunger as they flickered from wingtip to wingtip, to hands void of weapons and finally to blue eyes. Eyes that were filled with exhaustion, hope, recognition. With loss and love and everything that refused to be reflected in Dean's.

Then, in the span of a breath, he was gone, lifting his wings once and ignoring the agony as best he could as he brought them down to push through air and space. To carry him away. Far from the demon's green gaze and the pain of recognizing that this demon was the same man he had had risked Hell to save twice. Somehow though, both facts followed him, flashing through his mind with each feeble wing beat.

He meant to stay away; to learn his lesson and be done with it all. To leave his past shattered where it lay. But even as he flew further away, stubborn memories continued to find their way to him, filling the shadows of every dark alley he hid in with their light. Flashes of his last life that were both unbidden and cherished filled his vision, pulling him down in a conflict that only made him feel more and more human once again. And with every familiar dream he felt himself slipping further into the old sensations.

After five days of hiding, he returned, alighting without a sound in the same abandoned hotel room he had fled from. With that last beat he felt his feathers crumble, his wings falling to ash at his sides with only a dull ache and he knew he couldn't run again.

Dean was still there, crouched in the same corner his saviour had lain and the angel couldn't help but note the irony of how the ashy imprints of his wings were now spread behind a demon while he was all but a grounded mortal.

Neither moved for a while, both expressionless as they watched each other.

Finally Dean spoke and the angel blinked as the stillness was broken with his parting lips.

“This isn't Hell.” His voice was raw, scraping against the air like sandpaper with each word.

The angel shifted. “No,” he replied after a breath. Or tried to. What came out was closer to a death rattle then his charge had sounded. Father above, how many decades had it been since he's used his human voice? Just as many as Dean had spent in Hell. He cleared his throat before trying again. “No, it isn't.”

Dean nodded. “And?” When no reply came he snorted, raising his eyebrows in exasperation. “Okay, so you can't take a hint.” With a huff, he pushed himself to his feet. Green eyes found blue and the angel couldn't help a small intake of breath as he saw the barest spark of recognition there. But it was wrong somehow; dark beneath the demon blackness, and jarring...

“So,” Dean began and the angel blinked, shifting his gaze nervously before that spark could properly find him. Dean didn't seem to notice as he continued speaking. “I don't need to be the brightest crayon in the box to guess that you're not exactly from my side of the fence.”

The angel didn't reply. He stood there, studying the air just next to Dean's head and wishing desperately that he still had his wings, that he could somehow gather the impressions left on the wall and fly away, for good this time. This wasn't what he wanted. He'd wanted Dean, after so many years, he'd wanted Dean and here he was but it was wrong. All those years had left their scars and it was _wrong_.

With a slow breath he stomped down his panicked thoughts and forced his eyes back to meet Dean's. The dark spark there flared up then, more certain of itself, but Dean made no move.

The angel kept his voice even. “No. No, I came from a different place.”

“From...?”

The angel shrugged.

Dean let out a low growl of impatience, a noise that sounded more naturally feral than human. “Well, you're a regular Chatty Cathy, aren't you? Wanna spare some details, man? You pulled me out of Hell! What's your endgame?” His gaze was hard now, watching for the slightest wrong move and the angel could feel the tension growing, sucking the oxygen out of the room until his lips were dry and he felt his fists clench at his sides despite himself.

“My endgame...” He shook his head and raised his hand to gesture at nothing in particular. “This. Though I'll admit to having pictured it a little differently.” Like his charge having remained completely human for one thing.

Dean's eyes narrowed and he took a step closer. “Who are you?”

The angel didn't move. He could feel both the urge to fling himself forward – to wrap Dean up deep into himself – and to flee far away, but at this point he could do neither. “I don't think I should say,” he answered instead. He forced himself to stare straight into Dean's eyes. The green was now lost beneath a hard cloud of ebony. “Besides, you already know.”

With a snarl Dean threw himself at the angel, forcing them both back to crash against the only window in the room. The splintered wood of the sill dug into the angel's back while Dean's hands found his throat, pressing down and drawing in shadows to linger menacingly at the edges of his vision.

“You son of a bitch!” Dean growled, his eyes wide and a hard, steely black. “You're the one who sent me down there! You're the one who killed me!” His fingers dug in beneath the jaw line, nails scraping the skin bloody. “You're Castiel!”

Castiel blinked broken ice-blue at his charge. Inside he felt a part of him break upon realizing what Hell had spent all those years teaching Dean. With an obvious effort he brought his hands up to grasp at Dean's arm. Brittle fingers pulled away with just enough strength to free his throat and let a quick gasp of air trail into his lungs. “And you, Dean Winchester?” he choked. “Do you remember who you are?”

Glass splintered and cracked beneath his elbow and shoulder blades as Dean jerked him against the window. He felt the last of his strength streaming down his arm in trails of warm blood before falling free and dripping onto the window to trace delicate spider webs into the cracks.

“Don't you fucking _dare_ use that name!” Dean snarled, teeth flashing.

“You-”

Before he could finish, Castiel was thrown bodily to crash against the floor at Dean's feet. He held his face from the wood by his forearms but didn't turn back to face Dean. Not with Hell baring its fangs so comfortably in his eyes.

“I don't remember that life. _You_ took it from me! I don't need that name,” came the growl from above his head.

Castiel ran a hand across the wood flooring. Deep in the twisting grains, ashy particles sat, dancing in his breath and the breeze from the broken window. If only he could gather them all up, rebuild his wings and imagine this all a dream. Or a nightmare.

“I'm sorry,” he breathed. “That you're not who I was searching for.”

There was a pause at that and in that single second stupid, unbidden hope rose up in him. Stupid, _stupid_ hope. A ripping noise filled his ears and then the bitter tang of warm blood was filling his mouth, pooling behind his teeth to drip sluggishly onto the floorboards. And Castiel let the shadows catch up with him.


End file.
